


The Honeymooners

by verily_i_say



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:35:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verily_i_say/pseuds/verily_i_say
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hears the keys in the door and a second later she walks in carrying a tray of food. She’s still wearing the white dress, her hair is down, make up smudged a little around the eyes. She smiles a little when she sees him, says good morning. Her accent is thicker than he remembers. </p>
<p>Here she is, the new Mrs Milkovich. Fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Honeymooners

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Set shortly after S03E11
> 
> This fic co-exists in the same universe as A Choice In This and War Wounds, but can also be read as a stand alone piece.

Terry springs for a motel for the wedding night. It’s a dive a few blocks down from Cicero, the bedspread a sicking floral print with mystery stains and an enormous hot tub only two or three feet from the bed.

Mickey is so drunk he blacks out before she’s even taken her shoes off. 

 

He wakes to the sound of screaming from the next room, paper thin walls doing nothing to drown out the fight happening only a few feet away. 

“If you want it then get the hell out there and bring in some goddamn money, Angelique – I ain’t a fucking charity and rock don’t grow on fuckin trees!”

Mickey hears the slam of the door and someone, Angelique he would guess, screaming obscenities all the way through the parking lot until her voice is muffled by the rumble of the train line. 

He looks around, she’s not in the room. Her veil is sitting on one of the shitty chairs, his shoes are underneath it. 

The room is dim, he’s still wearing the stolen tux, cummerbund twisted up around his waist. He sits up, head pounding. There’s a bag of clothes he doesn’t remember packing on the floor next to the bed, one of his brothers probably dropped it off. He finds car keys at the bottom, looks out the window and spots their piece of shit car. Surprisingly decent of them. But, he supposes, it’s not like they ponied up for a wedding present or anything. At least he won’t need to spend the rest of the morning in the monkey suit. He starts to strip off and tries not to think about Gallagher, the back room at the wedding and the last time he took this tux off. He’ll take it to a pawn shop later and try to make a little cash from it. Pulls on a shirt, jeans, jacket. 

He hears the keys in the door and a second later she walks in carrying a tray of food. She’s still wearing the white dress, her hair is down, make up smudged a little around the eyes. She smiles a little when she sees him, says good morning. Her accent is thicker than he remembers. 

Here she is, the new Mrs Milkovich. Fuck. 

The motel’s ‘continental breakfast’ is a bowl of cereal, a dry piece of toast with one of those little butter packets, a doughnut that’s easily two or three days old and burnt coffee. They sit at the small table by the window, it’s so unbalanced that the tray jumps side to side any time either of them moves, spilling the drinks. He doesn’t eat anything and drinks the coffee too quickly. All they had was Sweet n’ Low, not real sugar, so it tastes extra shitty, like chemicals and the really crappy blow the guy on 21st sells sometimes. She reaches out across the laminate table top, tries to take his hand, but he pulls away trying to make it look like it wasn’t deliberate. He lights a cigarette, takes a few puffs and then remembers, fuck, pregnant woman, and tries to blow the smoke away from her. Any noble intentions are ruined when she takes her own smoke from the packet and lights up. 

When she sees him looking she shrugs. “I try to quit. Is hard. I cut down to half pack per day.”

The motel manager bangs on the door - checkout was 20 minutes ago, they’ve got to leave or pay for another 8 hours. Mickey doesn’t want to go back home, but he also doesn’t have a spare $45 on him, so decision made. 

She tries to take his hand again as they walk to the car, but he pulls away. He’s not subtle about it this time.

 

He drives her over to her old place so she can pick up her stuff. 

His Dad had made a big deal about her moving into the house and fuck, it’s not like Mickey could afford a separate apartment for them or anything. Towelhead had dropped him from the Kash and Grab after he bailed on a week of shifts without telling anyone. With the condition Terry left him in, it’s not like going in was an option anyways. Looks like he’ll have to pick up that shitty roof tarring job after all. Got to keep that parole bitch off his back. 

Terry had picked up a shitty second hand double bed for them on Craigslist, the mattress had a couple of stains on it, he thinks at least one of them is blood. Doesn’t really make a difference, Mickey’s planning on sleeping on the couch every chance he gets. 

He pulls the car over in front of the address she gives him. A drunk guy is pissing on his own feet a few doors up. Another one is asleep, or possibly dead, on the other side of the road. He was just going to wait in the car while she went in to get her things, but shit, she’s pregnant, isn’t she, so he probably shouldn’t make her lift heavy things. Fuck. This being married shit is really annoying. 

The front entry smells like stale sweat and some kind of onion soup and there’s piles of flyers on the floor along with something that might be a dead rat. Mickey thought he’d seen shitholes. Hell, he thought he’d lived in shitholes before, but this one takes the cake. They walk up four flights of stairs and through another door with a busted lock. The hall is missing its light bulb; Mickey can just make out a sign on the wall - ‘NO MEN ALLOWED IN ROOMS, NO EXCEPTIONS’.

She knocks lightly on one of the doors, then opens it slowly. The room is slightly smaller than Mickey’s at home, there are 4 sets of bunk beds and some rusted looking lockers along the wall. A bundle of bright pink fabric hangs over the rail of the closest unmade bed, Mickey recognises it as one of the bridesmaid dresses. 

She takes a small suitcase from under one of the beds then opens the locker nearest her and starts to pack.

Mickey feels obligated, or something. “Can I help?”

She smiles somewhat grimly at him.“There is not much.”

She’s right. 5 dresses, 1 winter jacket, 2 pairs of shoes, a bag of makeup. 1 paperback novel in Russian, two bent photos of what looks to be a family standing in the snow and a beat up brick of a Zune, complete with cracked screen and ratty old headphones. Shit, Mickey didn’t even think they still made those things anymore. 

 

On the way out, she stops at another door, a faded sign marked ‘OFFICE’ and knocks again. Almost immediately there’s the sound of multiple locks turning and then it swings open, a mountain of a man filling the doorway. Mickey tries not to sneer at his velure tracksuit and thick gold chain. Talk about fucking stereotypes, man. 

He eyes Mickey, then turns to Svetlana, suspiciously. “What is this? You know the rules about the rooms.” 

“Ivaylo, this is Mickey, who I tell you about.” Svetlana looks vaguely nervous, but like she’s trying not to be.

“Ahhh, the husband.” he looks Mickey up and down again, doesn’t hide his sneer. Mickey suddenly wishes he’d thought to bring a gun. 

Ivaylo gestures her into the office, steps out of the doorframe only just enough for her to squeeze past him. He turns back to Mickey. “Excuse us.” It’s not a request.

Mickey fights down the urge to tell this guy to go fuck himself. The door closes in his face. 

The cheap plywood does nothing to keep the sound out. Mickey hears him ask her for the money, then say something else in Russian. A long silence, then he pretends he can’t hear Ivaylo’s low grunts and the wet sounds of the blowjob echoing on the shitty linoleum. 

A girl he thinks he recognises as one of the bridesmaids walks past him down the hall. She nods at him. 

When the door opens again, Svetlana looks rushed, tucks what looks like a passport into her handbag and picks up her suitcase from the floor next to Mickey. Ivaylo is leaning back on his desk, fly undone. He shoots a smirk at Mickey. Oh he is so coming back here with his brothers to fuck this guy up. 

“Lana.” 

She stops, takes a breathe and then turns back toward the open office door. 

“If you change your mind and decide to come back to work, we can make some sort of arrangement. There are plenty who will pay extra for your condition.” 

It’s been only 5 weeks since he first clapped eyes on Svetlana; he’s been in her company a total of maybe 16 hours and most of that was at the wedding and then this morning. Even he can see that she’s faking her smile. 

She nods. “Thank you, Ivaylo, that is very kind offer.”

 

Back in the car, he tries not to notice as she takes a mint out of her purse right away. 

When they get half a dozen blocks away, he feels a sudden need to break the silence. “So, what’s up with the passport thing?”

She smiles grimly. “They take it from me when I get here.”

Oh fuck. Mickey thinks he knows where this is going, but doesn’t have a clue what to say to that. “Oh.” 

She nods, watching out the car window. “When I turn 18 years old a man come to my parents in Volsk, say he can get me job in USA. They tell me I will be nanny, look after children for rich and famous. Live in penthouse in Beverly Hills.” She smiles a little. “I get here and he say there is change and that family not need a nanny. He tell me that he can find me a place to live, but I must work at spa to pay him back.” 

Jesus. Mickey doesn’t know a lot about the woman he’s married to, but he does know that she’s 23. If he hadn’t already planned on going back there to fuck up that guy, he certainly would be now. 5 years, fuck. 

He sees her scratching absently at her arm; at track marks only a month old, if that. She catches him looking and folds her arms back in on herself. She looks suddenly sad, as if the shit she was just telling him were normal compared to this. “I know. I try to stop. I know it is not good for the baby.” 

He nods and runs his hand over his mouth, tries not to make her feel too shit about it. 

She turns back to him suddenly. “I am sorry about your boyfriend. He is very handsome. He was upset at the wedding; he must love you very much.“

Mickey has to concentrate at not driving off the road. “It’s not like that. That was just. That was a misunderstanding.” It sounds weak, even as he’s saying it. 

She nods, but Mickey can tell she doesn’t believe him. 

They drive in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he pulls into the driveway. “Here we are. Welcome home, I guess.” 

She goes to take his hand again, then suddenly remembers and pats him lightly on the arm instead. She lays her other hand on her stomach. “Thank you for looking after us. You are very sweet. “

Mickey nods and feels vaguely sick. He’s not really sure he’s ready for an ‘us’ yet.

“I go to doctor in two weeks time. You can come with me, if you like? I will find out if boy or girl.”

“What, already? I thought that wasn’t for like ages?” He not sure he want to know yet, it makes the whole thing too real. 

“Is 12 week scan. They won’t know for certains, but mostly right. I want a little girl, call her Oleysia for my mother, but boy would be nice too. Maybe Yakov or Alexei.” 

Her stilted English and heavy accent means that it takes him a full minute to process what she’s just said. “Wait. 12 weeks? You’re 12 weeks pregnant?”

“Well 10 now. Is 12 weeks at appointment time.” 

Mickey can’t think for a long moment. “I’m not the father.“ 

She looks over at him, confused “I thought you know this? I am pregnant before we meet. That is why I am so happy at wedding. I never think someone will want to take care of us.” She smiles at him.

He just stares. “No, my dad, he just said you were pregnant.” 

“Must be mistake then. He not explain right? I know Ivaylo tell Terry before I meet you. Terry tell me you want to marry me anyways. I don’t know who is father, except man from spa. Condoms, not always work, yes?”

Mickey is suddenly aware of how loudly he’s breathing, feels like there’s not enough air in the car. 

They’re married. 

It isn’t his kid. 

It isn’t his kid, but they’re still married. He’s not sure if that makes it better or worse. Fuck.

She sees the look on his face and is suddenly stricken. “You did not know this.”

“No.” Mickey stares out the windscreen without seeing anything. He can feel his eyes burning. Christ, he needs a drink. 

“I am sorry. I thought you know.” She sounds wrecked.

Mickey doesn’t say anything. 

Her voice is very quiet, resigned. “Will you send me back?”

The front door of the house opens, Terry walks onto the porch and calls out a welcome to them, yells something about the honeymoon. It’s more excited that his dad’s ever been to see him before in his entire life. He can hear his brothers start to cat call from the house, their voices muffled through the car doors. 

“No.”

Svetlana blows out a shaky breath in relief, wipes her hand across her face. She’s still breathing heavily.

Mickey is still staring out the windscreen. “We’ll work something out, okay?” 

She nods a few times to compose herself and reaches for his hand again. This time he lets her. He has absolutely no idea what he’s going to do. 

Finally, she squeezes his hand and smiles. He squeezes back. 

Mickey carries her bag into the house.

**Author's Note:**

> I am the very worst type of attention whore - please kudos and/or review and I will love you forever.


End file.
